


midnight sun

by boleynqueens



Series: tumblr prompts [6]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Epistolary, F/M, Love Letters, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 12:51:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7362199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt #15: things you said with too many miles between us</p>
            </blockquote>





	midnight sun

**Author's Note:**

> prompt #15, asked by silly-little-dancer on tumblr: things you said with too many miles between us
> 
> lyrics are from "midnight sun", by ella fitzgerald, linked in the italicized excerpt
> 
> "Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction." --Le Petit Prince  
> translation:  
> "Love does not consist in looking at each other, but rather in, together, looking in the same direction."
> 
> "Tu es toujours dans mon cœur" = "you are always in my heart"
> 
> "merde" = shit
> 
> "Je t'aime plus qu'hier et moins que demain" = "i love you more than i did yesterday and less than i will tomorrow"
> 
> "Pour toujours et à jamais" = forever and for always

**March 30, 1961**

Sweetheart,

They say "war is hell", but I haven't seen that as of yet. Thus far it's preparation and training more than anything else. The 'hell' so far is nothing but the way the sheets scratch at your legs as you try to fall asleep and the bitterness of the coffee served in the mess hall (I miss yours, and you, more so), perhaps in the balmy, inescapable heat of Vietnam (it's relieved, sometimes, by thunderstorms and pouring rain); but I pray that when it comes in its true form it will not keep me from you.

My bunkmate, Charles Brandon, is headstrong and annoying. Sleeps like the dead and snores loud enough to wake them. He doesn't write to anyone, or receive letters himself. He steals cigarettes from me and thinks I don't notice.

I sleep with the locket. The picture of you brings me great comfort; the memories it evokes, more so.

Do you remember our first date? It was a drive-in, _War and Peace_ (the irony doesn't escape me, love, I assure you), and I pulled in a spot in the back, early. You said "I know what you're doing, Tudor," and I said "I don't know what you mean."

But you threw me that black glare of yours and I worried you'd leave (and I had been building up to asking you out ever since the day I sat next to the prettiest girl in my poetry class, weeks and weeks before the date, so I wasn't about to give that up.  If you recall, I asked to borrow a pen, to which I earned the charming response of "get your shit together"...accompanied by a pen pulled from your satchel and handed to me without so much as a glance in my direction…), so I started the car again and pulled up closer to the screen, in closer company of other cars.

I didn't even try to kiss you after that, but you let me hold your hand.

I heard the song that was playing on the radio before the movie started on the radio here yesterday, and it reminded me of it. I tried to listen carefully and jot down the words, I wrote as quickly as I could, some is from memory, too:

>  "[your lips were like a red and ruby chalice, warmer than the summer night.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-f53xo_NNF8)  
>  the clouds were like an alabaster palace, rising to a snowy height.  
>  each star its own aurora borealis,  
>  suddenly you held me tight.  
>  i could see the midnight sun.
> 
>   
>  i can’t explain the silver rain that found me (or was that a moonlit veil?)  
>  the music of the universe around me (or was that a nightingale?)  
>  and then your arms miraculously found me, suddenly the sky turned pale.  
>  i could see the midnight sun."

See, I've already lied several times. Terrible of me. Marriage is supposed to hinge on honesty, so I'll list the lies and correct them post-haste:

> 1.) I noticed you far before our shared poetry class. I noticed you every time you hogged the goddamn payphone, chattering away in French and giving your patented "can I help you?" look to anyone that deigned to be in line behind you every so often.
> 
> Your hair was always twisted in red and silver ribbons, the silver stark against the black, pulled into bobby pins that had metal roses on them. They showed the nape of your neck, but you wore ear muffs when it was cold.
> 
> Ear muffs, but never a scarf, even when it was snowing.
> 
> I always thought that was stupid.
> 
> It's why one of my birthday gifts to you was a scarf.
> 
> You always complained about being cold, too. Is it any goddamn wonder?
> 
> And I thought, how does such an angelic face say " _merde_ " every other goddamn word and remain so angelic anyway?
> 
> 2.) I knew then that you were the prettiest girl at Boston University, not just the class.
> 
> 3.) Then the East Coast.
> 
> 4.) And, now that I've seen more of it, I can say with some assurance that you're the prettiest girl in the world.
> 
> 5.) The Seven Minutes in Heaven pairing at that party was not fate at all. I gave the hat-drawer a twenty to pull my name after yours, I folded the paper with my name on it into a swan. He felt it and made quick work of unfolding it before pulling it out, I guess.

I love and miss you more than words can say. I can scarcely imagine which it is I feel more of.

Here, from _Le Petit Prince_ , the book you gave me for my birthday, the one I brought with me:

_Aimer, ce n'est pas se regarder l'un l'autre, c'est regarder ensemble dans la même direction._

I never knew that was true until I met you.

_Tu es toujours dans mon cœur_.

Yours, always, and all my love,

 

_Henry_   _♥_  

* * *

**April 12, 1961**

Darling,

You're full of shit. You've been in love with Audrey Hepburn ever since our first date. You declared her the loveliest actress that Hollywood has ever seen, if you recall…I suppose I should be thankful that your tastes shifted from the bustier blondes of your early campus reputation: Jane Popincourt, Anne Bassett, Annabelle Hastings, Bessie Blount, Eliza Carew, Elizabeth Bryce…Lord, and that's just off the top of my head…your dorm room was quite the revolving door, wasn't it? And you wonder why I blew you off…

Where was I…ah, yes, your tastes shifted from the Marilyn Monroes, if you will, to the brunette, flapper-silhouetted Audreys, and I know you would've married her if given half the chance. Too bad; you're stuck with me instead. _Merde_ and all.

My wrists are sore from the copywriting gig, so it is a testament to my love for you that I write this letter. I detest typewriters, truly. I enjoy working at the reference desk at the library much more, but the hours are limited and so both it must be.

In regards to the coffee: drown it in milk and sugar, if they have any. Steal the milk that's meant for the cereal, if you must. It fixes the stalest of the stuff right up.

Our mothers seem to be developing their kinship over a shared name and fondness of baking (which I find abhorrent, but I'm always more than happy to eat the brownies that result). They invite themselves over, frequently, and the house constantly smells like vanilla and cigarette smoke. I have to open the windows at night after they leave.

The lyrics are lovely, but as your wife I believe I'm entitled to original poetry. Get on that in your spare moments.

I've sent suntan lotion, Coppertone, along with this. I remember your skin was redder than your hair after our honeymoon. And aloe vera, too, because I know you're in denial about the fact that you have red hair and have probably spent far too much time in the sunlight, sans hat, already (it's not blonde, it's red, no matter how close you shave it to your scalp for the military standards…it is…red…you have freckles…you are a Redhead, and it's time for you to deal with that reality).

You are not allowed to imply death in your letters to me (don’t think I didn't catch that, sir, you've never been half as sly or as subtle as you think you are). You do not need to pray about the 'hell of war' keeping you from me because nothing will keep you from me.

You will not die. It is not allowed. I do not allow it.

Clear?

I love you and miss you. My love increases between the miles and time spent apart; it brightens. It does not fade. Never fear that.

_Je t'aime plus qu'hier et moins que demain._

_Pour toujours et à jamais,_

 

_**Anne** _

**PS:** You  really think I didn't know about the swan? Please. It took that poor boy a good minute to pull your name out of that hat, and I saw the look of sheer panic on his face after he pulled mine first. Your little nod after it? You think I missed that?

I'm not stupid.

Oh, also, the book club selection of the month is _Lady Chatterly's Lover_ (scandalous and banned and such). I told them the _Song of Solomon_ was better, and they didn't believe me.

I read it aloud, and they did.

I included the most chaste excerpt of the verse, in case your bunkmate gets it in his head to steal and read your letters, too:

> "…the scent of your breath like apples, and your kisses like the best wine that goes down smoothly, gliding over lips and teeth. I am my beloved’s, and his desire is for me.  Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the fields, and lodge in the villages; let us go out early to the vineyards, and see whether the vines have budded, whether the grape blossoms have opened and the pomegranates are in bloom. [There I will give you my love](http://omgcenter.com/2012/10/17/the-sultry-song-of-solomon/)."

I sent you a Bible with this, too (although I'm sure you brought one already, that and a rosary, although hopefully not the Catholic guilt), and bookmarked the passage for you. 


End file.
